To Define Treachery
by en extase
Summary: Blind faith is easily shaken. In the Chamber of Secrets, the Horcrux-shade of a Dark Lord regains physical form and Harry finds within himself something he was never meant to know: ambition.
1. Chapter I: Murders in Half Darkness

Note: Familiar lines of dialogue and text are borrowed from _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_, but things start looking different very soon.

* * *

_Blind faith is easily shaken. In the Chamber of Secrets, a Dark Lord regains physical form and Harry Potter finds within himself something he was never meant to know: ambition._

* * *

**To Define Treachery**

**By**: Melnivone

**Chapter I**: Murderers in Half-Darkness

* * *

The shimmering letters rearranged themselves into the name Harry hated above all others.

_I AM LORD VOLDEMORT._

"You see?" Riddle whispered." It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, known only to my most intimate friends, of course. You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father's name forever? I, in whose veins flows the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother's side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch? No, Harry. I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!"

There was a short lull as Harry mustered his courage.

"You're not," Harry said, raising his chin defiantly.

"Not what?" snapped Riddle.

"Not the greatest sorcerer in the world," said Harry. "Sorry to disappoint you, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were strong, you didn't dare try and take over at Hogwarts. Dumbledore saw through you when you were at school and he still frightens you now, wherever you're hiding these days."

The smile had gone from Riddle's face, to be replaced by a very ugly look.

"Dumbledore's been driven out of this castle by the mere memory of me!" he hissed.

Harry held his tongue.

"No. You don't know what you're saying," Tom said with conviction. "Your mind isn't Slytherin in the least. You think too much in the present – you don't realize how merciful I've been."

The words sounded ridiculous to Harry.

"That's your idea of mercy?" he accused, gesturing at Ginny's unmoving form.

"You need to be reminded," Tom continued, his tone lighter now.

Harry came to the realization that Tom's happiness was more terrifying than his anger.

"Don't touch her."

"I've eluded him at every turn, striking at the students of his hallowed institution with impunity."

Tom's ire vanished, replaced by a terrifying certainty.

"It is by my mercy, and _mine alone_, that your mudblood friend is still alive."

Hermione.

_If that basilisk had lingered a little longer before retreating…_

Harry's stomach lurched fearfully at the implications.

The basilisk could easily have slaughtered each of its victims before withdrawing. A slight prick of its venomous teeth might suffice, or it could have simply swallowed them whole. He shut his eyes at the mental image of children helplessly sliding down the beast's gullet.

"How do you think your revered headmaster felt, knowing each petrification could have been a death at my whim?"

Riddle's gleeful voice was rising.

"I had killed one of his students before, after all. It must have eaten at him, searching the castle for hours yet finding nothing, despite being its headmaster for generations. Hogwarts," he said, "never belonged to him."

The parting words Dumbledore had spoken to Minister Fudge returned to him.

_"You will find that I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me. You will also find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."_

They had seemed cryptic when he first heard it. Full of hidden reassurance, as if Dumbledore could offer a way out even when all the doors were sealed.

Now he saw that they were utterly empty of meaning.

Voldemort had never forced a confrontation with Dumbledore – but he hadn't _needed_ to. Not when he could drive Dumbledore from his seat of power without once coming face to face.

"So you see, I'm not the senseless, remorseless killer you believe you me to be. I end lives for a purpose. The only death this year will be dear Ginevra's."

"What do you mean?" Harry said, alarmed.

"She's given much – but not quite enough. Her life diminishes, so that I may become tangible. There's not much left to take now."

"She dies, and you get your body back," Harry said slowly, a terrible understanding dawning on him.

"I may have misspoken slightly. Leaving you alive, however harmless you appear to be," Tom said apologetically, "is inviting trouble. But perhaps I speak too hastily. Perhaps Dumbledore has a miracle hidden up his sleeve?"

Stricken by fear, Harry watched Riddle stride away from him and stop between the high pillars and look up into the stone face of Slytherin, high above him in the half-darkness. Riddle opened his mouth wide and hissed, but Harry understood what he was saying…

A mass of shadows concealed the basilisk as it coiled around the serpentine columns, slowly encircling him. Serrated teeth glinted dimly in the reflection of the eternal torchlight.

An icy sensation began spreading throughout Harry's body, stealing every last vestige of warmth.

He fought desperately to master the fear numbing his limbs.

_You survived him once when you were still in the cradle, _he thought fiercely.

He shut his eyes and slowly backward, gambling his life in a reckless throw of the dice.

Harry stumbled backward. His footsteps splashed through the shallow puddles of stagnant water.

His back met the contoured surface of a pillar. It steadied him, and he exhaled.

"That's it? You're going to kill me without knowing the secret behind your first defeat?" he called loudly.

A momentary pause followed.

The silence birthed misery. It festered within him, making his muscles quiver in the throes of wrenching hyper-tension. Harry felt sickened beyond the worst illness. Unlike in his encounter in front of the Mirror of Erised with Voldemort's spirit, his life wasn't the only one at risk and he'd never coped with the ridiculous magnitude of that responsibility before. He despised this feeling more than anything, knowing that his fate was at the mercy of Tom's whim.

"What?" Riddle finally asked, tone deathly quiet.

Harry leveraged every word carefully. He needed clarity of mind now more than ever. Precision, suggestion, temptation - these three were all necessary.

"The Killing Curse has never failed in its history, not once since its invention. Not until you cast it against me. I'm sure you wondered why."

Riddle stayed expressionless, until the beginnings of a dark smile formed on his mouth.

"I certainly did. My only question is, how would_ you_ know?"

"Dumbledore told me," Harry shot back.

"Speak. Leave nothing out."

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He slowly closed it, and waited for something to leap off his tongue. He blinked several times in succession, eyelashes fluttering rapidly. He wiped away the beads of sweat on his forehead. He was drawing a blank. He felt like he was in Snape's classroom, stumped by what a bezoar was. Why couldn't he come up with something?

Tom began chuckling.

"You don't know."

He visibly relaxed, and his chuckles faded quietly into silence.

'I never would have dreamed… I take my words back," he decided. "You have potential. You... you feel the same things all human beings are subject to. The imperatives of fear, doubt, and self-preservation are your imperatives. But you have the cunning and the daring to try and defy these instincts. You've impressed me to a mild extent."

He gestured to the basilisk awaiting his orders.

"No doubt you would have grown into a fine foe."

Tom stepped away, and regarded him with cold, clinical eyes.

"What?" Harry croaked, not trusting him to say anything more as the basilisk slithered towards him.

"Rise up to the occasion, little hero," Tom said simply, climbing atop the statue's pedestal and plopping himself down. He cocked his head to the side and let it rest on his hand as he swung his legs over the edge, watching the proceedings with open curiosity.

Ripples traveled through the puddles of sewage water as the basilisk closed the distance. Its mouth unhinged and stretched until it could probably swallow him and an entire class of students. Its neck rose, and its shadow eclipsed Harry, dwarfing him like an insect.

_Come on, you _need _to act this time!  
_

The fresh memory of his failure to trick Tom earlier at the crucial moment was enough to galvanize him. Harry whirled around and broke into a run.

It moved with impossible speed, far exceeding what Harry expected from a creature of its massive bulk. In one instance he was in mid-stride, and then he was pinned to the ground. The basilisk began dragging his form back and forth. His robes whipped around him wildly and he gasped for breath as his face was pressed into the slimy floor.

"Enough!" Tom said sharply.

The monster rose, but there was a sharp snapping sound as the fang it had skewered Harry with was broken off. It hissed horribly as it reeled back, and its tongue caressed the cracked molar.

At first, there was the shock of the blunt trauma of a fang piercing through his back and puncturing through his front.

Then, molten pain erupted in him.

It was from the flesh parted by the fang and radiated outward with frightening speed, overloading his senses. He lay there, spasming helplessly and unable to make a sound. Insensate with pain, he was reduced to weeping silently.

He lost track of how long he laid there, brought to the brink of oblivion by the venom agent. He stirred, and subconsciously reached out with a hand to claw his way forward, alternating arms sluggishly.

Riddle watched quietly as Harry dragged himself to the prone form of the girl who he'd risked so much and come so far to save, only to fall so tragically short.

"You sick _monster!_" Harry screamed hoarsely, his voice muffled by the floor. His vision blurred, paroxysms of pain wracking his frail body. His legs were locked up excruciatingly, and tremors shook his arms.

Hatred welled up in him uncontrollably for this cruel teenage boy who was putting him through this torture. He seized it. His strength was rapidly fading and hate was the only emotion he had left potent enough to fuel his last efforts. He knew his purpose, and all uncertainty dissipated.

He reached behind him and wrenched the fang from his back, feeling every devastating tear of internal organs and muscle and sinew. His vision flashed a searing white like a megawatt camera going off in front of his face as unimaginable havoc assailed his neural pathways, nervous system, _everything_. He reared back and steadied his hand as he found his grip and held it poised. With a strangled cry, he brought it down onto Ginny's unmoving chest, but not with enough force to pierce the sternum. It jarred his hand enough so that he dropped it and it rolled away from him.

_You did nothing to deserve this._

Fighting to keep his concentration, he heaved himself forward into a clumsy lunge and managed to snatch the fang.

_You're so young and the world's been unfair to us both...  
_

He existed in that state of liminality between an out-of-body experience and full consciousness and control of the killing he was committing.

... _but I have to do this. _

He aligned the fang in his little fist and stabbed her again, puncturing the bone of her breastplate.

_I can't let him come back. _

He braced himself.

_Not ever._

A grunt escaped his lips as he brought it down one last time, carving through the delicate flesh. He let the fang clatter from his nerveless fingers and began to back away. His legs buckled though and he slipped onto Ginny's dying body. She was absolutely still, inert despite the mortal wound he'd delivered. Blood seeped through the hole he'd torn through her chest. He sputtered as it drenched him, horrified. He tried to right himself, and caught a glimpse of the motionless figure of his watcher through the reddened haze.

Riddle stared at him him unblinkingly under hooded eyes, his thoughts indiscernible. The only movement that betrayed him was the unconscious step backward he took at the sight of Harry's bloodshot green eyes and the desperate expression that made him seem so lost but filled with absolute resolve at the same time. Tear tracks painted his flushed cheeks, but he was no longer crying or fearful. He embodied wrath in a way no twelve year-old ever should.

"Voldemort..."

He was panting.

Every word was slurred as his lungs were liquefied, falling apart like shrapnel.

He dragged himself to his knees. Dully, he registered the soft footfalls of Riddle dropping down from his perch and landing on the ground.

"I don't_ care_ that Dumbledore isn't all-powerful."

And somehow, truth came to him in his fever-ridden delirium. One unalterable truth that would never, ever change.

"If I could, I would _kill_ you without a bloody second thought!" he bellowed with his eyes shut, spittle flying from his lips.

He swayed from side to side and nearly fell, but he thrust out his arm and used it to support his weight, ignoring the protestations of his burning muscles. Footsteps were ringing in his head, and he summoned everything he had to keep that countenance of defiance as Riddle approached him at his unrushed, measured pace.

"I will _never _bow down to you and I'd spit on your corpse and let it rot for _all of time_ and _**AH**_–"

A fiery wave of pain that ignited every nerve fibre, cutting him short. The coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth as his teeth nearly severed the tip of his tongue. He clutched at his torn stomach and slumped down to the cold floor, dragged down by the exhaustion. He felt unbearably small and feeble. His thoughts became brittle and the heaviest darkness he had ever known enveloped him, dimming the image of Tom's hesitant face looming over him.

_Ginny…  
_

_Please understand._


	2. Chapter II: The Prisoner Predicament

Time flies, doesn't it? One moment I'm typing up the first words of _To Define Treachery_, then four years are gone in the blink of an eye.

I've improved a lot as a writer in that time, and also became a little distant from _To Define Treachery. _It's always meaningful to me since it's my first real attempt at writing a story. I mucked up a lot of things though. Some missteps were little details like Harry having his wand when in canon Tom had taken it.

But the major problem with the former incarnation of _To Define Treachery _was that Tom and Harry became friends too fast. Theirs should be a complex and faceted relationship and I couldn't do justice to it years ago. They go from mortal enemies to collaborators and confidantes too fast. Another thing I'm displeased with is how killing Ginny was the only choice Harry could have made for himself, and I had Harry just brush her death off his conscience like it was nothing because I didn't like Ginny. That instance of character-bashing, even though it's small compared to all the manipulative!Dumbledore, and moneystealing!Weasley garbage, still made the story worse than it could have been.

So in short, I've undertaken a rewrite, with the intention of moving the plot in new directions that took a ton of work to plan out and should be exciting to watch unfold. Harry and Tom are, above all else, two wizards who have the power to shape things as they wander the winding path to whatever awaits them.

* * *

**Chapter II**: The Prisoner Predicament

* * *

Tallgrass, on all sides.

Below, the rickety structure of the Burrow - five crooked stories, four chimneys and a garage held together only by precarious threads of magic - looked as wondrous as ever. Its outer edges were blurred by a fiery brightness, the home backlit by the sun halfway sunken beneath the overlooking hills. The pond in the garden was serene; the only movement betraying the presence of dragonflies and frogs were the gentle ripples traveling through the water and the lazy circles traced by the blossoming lilypads floating on its surface.

Harry watched silently, drinking in the vision of his second home in fond remembrance. Had it only been a summer ago when Fred, George, and Ron rescued him from the Privet Drive in a flying car? When he'd met the mother who had raised the coolest older brothers that could be imagined and the most loyal friend he'd ever met, or their father with his quirky fascination for Muggle technology?

Almost as if in recognition of his thoughts, he saw a silhouette flicker beyond the window on the lowest floor and caught a glimpse of Molly as she bustled about with housework. He saw two young men stride out of the garage. The first was of medium height stride out of the garage, carrying several sets of robes that were horrifically marred by burns and singes in his muscled arms. He wondered if he was Charlie, the accomplished Quidditch Captain and prefect, for Gryffindor House, professional dragon trainer and wizard whose wand was passed down to Ron. The second was much taller and had hair that went down to his shoulders. He was saying something over his shoulder to his sibling as he pulled down the up-and-over door. Harry decided he must be Bill, the only other brother he hadn't met, the Curse-Breaker. Charlie laughed and transfigured one of the burned robes into a hog-nosed bat which swerved down to hector Bill, who good-naturedly endured it for a few steps before snatching the creature out of the sky with his bare hands and tying its wings into a knot, whereupon it reverted back to its original, charred form.

Harry was grinning widely. He decided to go down himself and introduce himself to the eldest Weasley brothers.

He made to take his first step toward the retreating brothers, but stopped short when a quiet voice spoke up.

"They don't know yet."

He whirled around, and found himself face to face with Ginny Weasley. They were both wearing their Hogwarts uniforms. She held his gaze only for a split second before a faint blush suffused her cheeks and she averted her eyes to her demeanor much like when he'd first met her, though perhaps the starstruck wonder at seeing the Boy-Who-Lived was muted. A shade of it remained, and Harry hated the feeling of his own worthlessness that welled up when he saw her lingering adoration.

What could he say to the phantom of the girl whose life he'd taken? How could he defend his decision and make her understand? He was too young to be explaining it to her and she was too young to be dead at all. He was astounded by her youth. The dusting of freckles, the way she had to crane up to look at him because he was taller by a head. She'd just begun to learn of magic. She was a _first year_. How could that journey end so abruptly?

"Hi Ginny."

She gave a small smile at his tentative greeting.

He brushed his fingertips against her forehead, and when his fingers registered the warmth of living flesh he barely suppressed the urge to recoil as if he were seared by molten lead. He kept his wrist locked as he forced himself to maintain the unbearable contact. With agonizing slowness, he traced his fingers across her temple until he reached her ear, tucking a loose tress of auburn hair behind her ear. He let his arm fall to his side.

"My brothers have always wanted to protect me," Ginny mused aloud. "For as long as I can remember.

Harry was beginning to breathe faster and faster. He shut his eyes as her words assaulted him like thrusts of a knife.

A sharp crack interrupted them. They both turned back to face the Burrow. At the end of the footpath, Arthur Weasley appeared. He moved with an almost mechanical stiffness, his movement uncertain. He was wringing his hands. Harry felt deepest loathing at himself.

"Dad will fly away on the Ford Anglia for a few nights to be alone, I think," Ginny said thoughtfully.

The side of his lips twitched as he moved his mouth soundlessly, trying to muster up the courage to say something and break the flow of the torturous words. He stayed still, wrestling with himself for another second - then he was plunging through the sheaves of tallgrass, turning his back on the image of the Burrow and the phantom of Ginny. The long thin stalks whipped at his face and body but he charged through uncaring.

"I think... mum will take this the hardest." Her saddened voice was following him, its source everywhere and forming an unbreakable sonic prison, with him as its solitary inmate.

"_SHUT UP!_" Harry shouted, tearing wildly through the field. "I _told_ you why I had to kill you! Stop it stop it stop it-"

The blades of grass became razor sharp, and in one instant he was covered in countless lacerations as they sliced through the skin of his cheek and limbs. He staggered, but he was able to sustain his forward momentum right as he reached a downward slope. He raised his arms to shield himself against the knives he was throwing himself into.

"What the bloody hell did you want me to do?" he called out shrilly, heaving with exertion. "Would you have me let him come back? Is that what you wanted?"

The winds abruptly intensified and howled like a host of demons clawing their way from hell. The tallgrass was flattened and it was terrifying to see it happen to the entire field around him and the meadows visible in the distance. He lost his footing completely and was pitched forward, tumbling end over end through brambles and thick knots that slammed into him unforgivingly before he landed flat on his back, gasping in pain.

Breaths, coming and going faintly.

"I don't know."

There was a tremulous waver in Ginny's whisper-soft voice. He noted idly that she was kneeling beside him. He gave no physical reaction to her appearance and was too wearied to note it with much more than mild resignation. He could only lay there, sprawled with his feelings and thoughts pulled feebly in too many directions.

"Why would you kill an innocent girl?"

He wheezed out the answer.

"You know why. "

"I don't understand," she insisted.

"Because..." Harry faltered.

All of it seemed like the worst impulse. Was that why? Had the synapses in his brain been firing incorrectly as they were ruptured by the basilisk venom? He uttered a strangled moan and let his head fall back, breath leaving him in a rush of air. He stared unfocusedly at the grey clouds in the sky.

"I... I made a mistake," he said to her, voice small, "The worst of my short life. I'm sorry you had to be the one to pay for it."

A small hand slipped into his and he gripped it tightly, feverishly trying to memorize the smooth silkiness of her skin, the illusory pulsation of life, and the gentle facsimile of warmth.

The youngest Weasley child looked pityingly at him, touched by his apology. Her Hogwarts robe flowed like liquid around her slight form and her vibrant hair caught the fading sunlight as the wind snatched at the ends of the fiery locks. She tightened her grip on his hand.

"Harry-" and he could feel the strains of frustration, loneliness, and heartbreak in her answer.

The winds were intensifying again and detritus flew in weaves of chaotic patterns all around them. Ginny seemed to understand that their time was growing to a close. She looked at him, lost and scared.

"I'll try to be brave."

* * *

His eyelids fluttered open.

He blinked at the blank ceiling, then sat up.

It took him a moment to comprehend the blurriness of his perception. He could see the sheets drawn up to under his arms clearly enough, but things became less distinct from there until he only saw a hazy mass of darker colors at the foot of the bed. His hands reached out on instinct to the side, and he found his glasses.

He put them on and the world came into focus.

And he wished he'd never woken up.

"Welcome back to the world of the living."

Tom Riddle was sitting in a chair, feet propped up against the edge of the bed, flicking pages of a book he was reading lazily. A nightstand was next to the bed, a wardrobe sequestered in the corner, and a bookcase that looked untouched took up the wall opposite the windows. The curtains were open, but the glass of the windowpanes was murky, like oxidized headlights of a car or a fogged up mirror. It was impossible to see what lay beyond the windows in the outside world.

"I'm not quite there myself, for which I fully place the blame on you," Riddle intoned without taking his attention from the book.

"You'll never get there," Harry said darkly. The words passed through his mouth without hesitation, without the slightest regard for self-preservation.

This time, Riddle glanced at him over the top of the book cover, eyes narrowed and mouth set in a thin line. His fingers pinched the corner of the page he was in the midst of turning.

"Did you know that I was the one who healed you? Were it not for me, you'd be a liquefied mess staining a Hogwarts uniform."

"I don't care. In fact, I hate you," Harry spat, his ire provoked by his torturer's arrogance. He struggled up so that his back was propped up against the headboard. "I hate that you manipulated Ginny, tricked me into trusting you, and then made me kill her. And I especially, _especially_ hate how you have the gall to sound as if I owe you a _favor._"

There was a heavy thump as Riddle abruptly shut the book closed and leaned forward in his chair.

"I didn't make you kill her," he said quietly, eyes boring into Harry's knowingly. "You could have accepted your fate. But, the consequences weren't acceptable to you. Somehow, your mind works in the most fascinating of ways, and you created a choice for yourself. Now Ginny is dead, you are recovering, and I am but half-alive."

He smiled charmingly.

"So, here you are."

"Here I am," Harry repeated, the statement rolling off his tongue lifelessly.

Riddle studied his face intently, but there was nothing to read in his features. Harry felt emotionless, dead. It showed. Chuckling in amusement, Riddle rose from the chair and set the book down. He yawned as he stretched his arms above his head lazily.

"Well, make yourself at home. I'll go and get us some brunch."

Whistling a wavering tune, Riddle left the bedchamber, not bothering to shut and lock the door behind him because he didn't need to or due to simple negligence. Somehow, Harry doubted it was the latter.

Harry waited until the retreating footsteps diminished into silence, then shot out of the bed and reached the doorway in a single bound.

* * *

Sensory deprivation was the cruelest torture, and Tom reveled in his newfound freedom from its clutches. A flock of birds flew overhead, tiny blots in the sky. He tried to follow the movement of their wings as they bore the creatures aloft before they faded into the distance, disappearing behind towering office buildings. He felt no ill will toward the Muggle insects teeming around him, because they were populating his world and erased the dark solitude he'd been trapped in for so long. He even permitted a pretty teenage girl to brush shoulders with him. The brunette met his eyes over the brim of her sunglasses flirtatiously, before breaking up in giggles and skipping a few steps before returning to her usual stride after she'd caught up with the friend she'd been walking with. Tom peered curiously at the other pedestrians wandering the streets. He wore a long-sleeved t-shirt with some silly Muggle brand name on it, with a pair of sunglasses were hooked on its collar. He was blending in, absorbing the feeling of being lost in a crowd.

He closed his eyes blissfully, silently savoring the warmth of the sunlight.

It stunned him how few of the memories immortalized in the diary's entries had taken place during the day. They were his most glorious moments, but they'd taken place in the night or in secluded places away from prying eyes. They'd gotten dark and depressing after reliving them endlessly, and the people he'd befriended or made his victims had become puppets, reenacting the same play over and over again. It took the joy out of weaving his deceptions to see the same students and teachers fall for his schemes a thousand times. He needed this, to set aside his disdain for Muggles for an hour and know that these people were in the present and that, whether they were harried and running errands or going shopping for leisure or simply enjoying a stroll on a nice day, they were doing so of their own accord.

But, things were not completely right.

Tom could feel the looseness in the slackened bonds that kept him from becoming physical. There was a faint feeling of floating in his steps, as if gravity was not certain whether he belonged in its domain. To be halfway free from the confinement of the ensorcelled pages was at once exhilarating and frustrating. He was so close to being himself again. Physical sensations like the breeze on his face were muted, as if diffused by a hundred layers of deadened skin.

He wanted to feel whole, not like a flesh-wraith roaming the earth because the lords of death were indecisive.

He'd invested so much in coaxing the life from Ginny Weasley and to be stopped a few steps short was frustrating in a way he'd never experienced, even when he'd been stranded for entire summers at the orphanage.

He glanced up when he noticed a sign hanging over the small, local diner he'd been looking for. The lettering on the sign was dull in the daylight, but would be shining an incandescent neon a few hours later. Followed a gentleman through the entrance, he mentally reminded himself to see the city of Birmingham by nighttime.

* * *

Harry found himself standing in a long corridor, adorned by paintings of picturesque scenes he didn't care for. They were probably portraits of famous people by famous artists, but they looked the same to him; the same waxy skin, disturbingly penetrating beady eyes, the same cravat and gloomy background. A Joseph Mallard Turner painting of a torrential flood seemed to enliven the mood a little, and there was a painting of a weeping knight kneeling aside a slain warhorse. There were only three rooms within sight; his own, the room next door, and another across from his. At each end of the corridor was a doorway leading to sets of stairs.

He started by checking the room across the hall. Opening the door, he stepped into a washroom. Linoleum tiles, plastic drapes that were dark blue with illustrations of cartoon fishes and sea flora dotting it. He checked the cabinet behind the mirror for anything useful. He found a first aid kit he deemed heavy enough for the task he had in mind for it. He hauled it back into his room and tensed up his sore arm muscles before hurling it at the occluded windows with all the force he could muster.

He held his breath as it soared through the air and smashed into the strangely-altered windows, but not through them. The kit merely bounced back off and landed on the floor, the clasps falling open and the bottles of pills, packages of bandages and gauze, skin stapler, and miniature dental module clattering about.

A disappointing, if not unexpected result. Riddle must have made everything unbreakable.

He fled back into the hallway.

He tried the room adjacent to his, but when he tried to turn the doorknob he met the resistance of a lock and he was too tired to hurl his body against the door to see if it would break down. He quashed the momentary feeling of longing for his wand. An Alohomora would go a long way in his predicament.

He rushed down the stairs closest to him, bare feet slapping against the cold, polished wood in rapid succession before he arrived on the floor below. There were another three rooms, two with their doors ajar, and another staircase at the opposite end of the hall. At this point, he didn't at all care about the particulars of the house - he only wanted to find the front door or back door or whatever, and get the hell on his way.

He caught a glimpse of the rumpled blankets and realized he'd just gone in a circle.

Cursing under his breath, he took off down the opposite staircase. Just as he expected, he wound up in the same hallway.

Feeling an impending sense of doom, he generally ran himself ragged trying to escape the loop enclosing him.

Finally, he staggered against the wall, sinking down underneath the painting of the sad knight.

He screamed at the top of his lungs in frustration, and instinctively curled up, drawing up his knees and clasping his hands around them as echoes of his anguish rang with an unexpected harshness in his ears.

He began pondering things.

Certain questions, like why Riddle had decided to heal him before the basilisk's venom had consumed him. Hypotheticals like how the Weasley family would take the death of its youngest. Would they be shown her corpse, gutted and emptied of blood so that it was a dried-out husk?

Certain worries, like whether Dumbledore had surmised what had happened - and whether he had even been reinstated as headmaster at all. He assumed that Riddle had taken all evidence of his connection to the Chamber of Secrets.

And a certain regret that would stay with him forever.

He'd killed Ginny in a moment of sheer belief, absolute certainty that it was the only way to keep Riddle from coming back.

_And now what, _he thought miserably, _she's dead, I'm a prisoner, and _he's_ somewhere outside, a free man._

He stayed there, huddled against the hall. Detached from time, from his own guilt.

The sound of footsteps eventually emanated from the stairwell.

Harry turned his head to look at it. Feeling his wounds burn against his bandages, he forcefully dragged himself onto his feet, gritting his teeth. He hobbled back into the bedroom, kicked the chair Riddle had sat in out of sheer spite, and slid gingerly under the covers.

Before long, Riddle was back. He glanced at the medical kit and its scattered contents but made no mention of it. He righted the fallen chair and seated himself, removing the meals he'd ordered from the diner from his bag. He drew a wand - Harry's wand - from his pocket and gave it a nonchalant flick, simultaneously conjuring a tray complete with utensils in Harry's lap and levitating the roast beef sandwich and a container of tomato soup onto it.

He sat down, watching Harry expectantly. He'd changed from his wizarding attire into Muggle clothing for his trip, the first time Harry had seen him wear anything other than his prefect uniform.

He picked up the spoon and fork, holding them idly.

Minutes lapsed in silence, and eventually Harry conveyed the message that he wasn't hungry and that Riddle would have to initiate any dialogue. The tall Slytherin boy was toying with Harry's wand, weighing it in his hands, examining the fine grain patterns, trying to get a feel for the invisible bond between the wand and the wizard it had chosen.

"Your wand feels exactly like my own," Riddle thought out loud.

Harry stayed sullenly quiet and kept his gaze downcast, as if disappointed to find himself alive.

Then, he muttered, "It's holly and phoenix feather."

Riddle considered Harry's answer, weighing it against his expectations and absorbing the implications it entailed.

"Truly we are two of a kind, Harry."

He put the wand down and leaned forward, captivating Harry's attention by the sheer intensity of his stare.

"Our histories could not be more similar. You resemble me in physical ways, some obvious and some subtle. We wield brother wands. And now, both of us have_ killed_."

"I killed Ginny to stop you," Harry said slowly, looking up, "You murder because that's what... that's what evil people do! I don't know what it is, exactly, but I know that it will always separate us."

"I murdered someone, as you so delicately put it, because I wanted to create a living memoir of myself, not out of any sense of enjoyment or satisfaction. Murder was just the means by which accomplished my goal," Riddle reasoned, spreading his hands in front of him defensively.

Harry seethed.

"To what degree do you think society differentiates killers? Neither of us are soldiers, fighting for the glory of the Isles and thereby exempt from the laws normal citizens abide by In the end, I killed Myrtle painlessly by way of the Basilisk's stare and you absolutely _butchered _darling little Weasley. You killed her in a more painful and bloodier way when Ginny would have died peacefully had you left her to me. It would have been like falling into a pleasant, ever-lasting sleep. Do you know what kind of a mind, what kind of soul it takes to be able to consciously make the decision to take another life and in such a brutal manner?"

Harry remained silent.

Riddle smirked as he rose, smoothing over his shirt as he prepared to depart and leave the boy to his own devices.

"Do eat. You need to regain your strength."

_Harry Potter, holder of the brother wand and murderer at a younger age than I, _he thought to himself. He paused to give a backward glance over his shoulder. He felt a strange joy watching the motionless raven-haired boy hold his silver utensils in his small, balled fists, the side of his mouth hollowed tensely, and Avada-Kedavra-green eyes staring hard at nothing.

* * *

One day, the door to the room next to his was unlocked.

He'd all but given up on exploring his prison. Nothing seemed to change, there were no irregularities or shifts in pattern that would indicate an opening for him. The staircases linked to the same hallway and the windows remained paintings always seemed to be mocking him, these Victorian-era aristocrats with soulless eyes, and he tired of it.

But he'd had a spark of inspiration while eating breakfast, and he made the decision to keep a certain piece of silverware on his person. The butter-knife wasn't sharp enough to threaten Riddle, but he'd been searching for a suitable whetstone to sharpen it into a potential weapon. He'd wandered out of his room, but throughout his search the unassuming door of the sealed room kept turning up in his peripheral vision.

On impulse, he put his search on hold and grasped the doorknob, bracing himself for the feeling of the latch bolt jamming as he turned it. He blinked as the resistance of the locking mechanism failed to manifest.

Disbelieving but feeling the faintest glimmer of hope, Harry pushed the door open. Pale light flooded into the room, and he saw that it was a study, dominated by an armoire desk with its folding doors opened wide to reveal the slide-out writing surface. He glanced around, and seated himself in front of the desk.

He flicked the switch of the lamp to give himself some light and examined the notepads and other articles of clutter, hoping to find some inkling of Riddle's plans. Something to bring an end to his ignorance and help him chart a course of action to breakout and find his way back to his friends and Dumbledore.

He found some documentation written in looping, cursive script that was difficult to interpret, like his teacher's handwriting in his first year at school with Dudley. It took him a while to realize that they weren't written by Riddle, but by whoever had lived here previously before Riddle had taken it over. Had Riddle killed the previous occupants too? They were medical care and citizenship papers, half-filled out fax return forms.

He swept his arms across the entirety of the desk, sweeping away all of the meaningless clutter onto the floor. He sat there, breathing hard for a long moment. Half-heartedly, he opened the drawers of the desk and peered into them, sorting through equally useless things like pens and envelopes and unused stationery.

It was hard to stifle the rising sense of hollow disappointment. With the possibilities narrowed to the sealed room, he'd built it up in his head as the keeper to the solutions of his problems. Find a way in, and he had the tools and knowledge to enact a miraculous mistake.

Reality was unkind.

There was a sharp sound of knuckles rapping against the wood of the door Harry had forgotten to close. Gritting his teeth, he looked up, leveling a hateful glare at the figure standing in the doorway.

"I thought you'd notice the door wasn't locked."

"What do you want me from me?" Harry asked, figuring he might as well ask the essential question.

Riddle reached within the folds of his robe and delicately extracted an object. An object with a black cover and binding, so innocent at first sight.

"I just want you to write."

Harry shot to his feet, horror writ on his features.

"I won't," he hissed, staring at the diary in Riddle's hands.

"No?"

The boy's gaze snapped to meet Riddle's challengingly.

"I have to put a piece of myself into the pages, invest real feeling and thoughts in it, otherwise it's meaningless scribbling. That's why it worked with Ginny! You can't manufacture authentic feeling."

Harry jumped, startled by the loud thump of the diary hitting the face of the desk.

"You owe me a _life debt_."

Riddle towered over him, and an aura of authority seemed to blaze to life around him and impose his will in the very air molecules, imbuing them with an electric intensity that made Harry's hair stand on end. It cowed Harry despite his incomprehension of what precisely a life debt was. He only knew that Riddle held some power he didn't comprehend yet over him and that he could use it to compel Harry to do what he wished.

"I made the choice to spare your life. In the wizarding world, that gives the debt-holder immense power. I could force the matter had I the inclination, but I don't need to. You can either obey me, or I will find someone more willing. Someone..." Riddle's tongue darted out to moisten his lips in thought, "someone like Ginevra. Insecure, waiting for a friend to enter their lives and lend a sympathetic ear to her woes..."

Devastated, Harry sank into the chair. Without another word, Riddle turned on his heel and left, and it enraged Harry that Riddle dared show his retreating back so fearlessly.

Harry buried his face into his folded arms as he listened to the door shut and the clicking sound of the lock.

"You think you're so invincible?" he whispered.

He drew the knife from its hiding spot in the waistband, trying to stave off the mounting desperation.

He stabbed it into the diary, but the blade bent sideways when it made contact. Harry could only stare in disbelief between the unblemished yellowed paper and the deformed metal of the knife.

He flung the knife away, blind with rage, and tried tearing the pages with his bare hands, but they resisted like they were sheets of titanium.

He buried his face into the palms of his hands, suddenly feeling unbearable exhaustion setting into his bones.

_Why is this all happening?_

He wanted to be back at Hogwarts, wishing for Potions class to be over. He longed to be facing the troll in the girl's bathroom with Ron again, or standing on the chessboard of life-scale pieces and being a knight's move away from being cut into ribbons. He even wished he were at the Dursleys, subjected to their hatred and condescension, because nothing was worse than this imprisonment at the hands of his hated enemy.

For a long while, his breathing was the only audible sound to accompany his thoughts. His eyes wandered down to his reflection staring up at him from the blade of the warped knife, the features hazy and dull in the wan light.

Unbidden, the last words of his imagining of Ginny Weasley rose to the forefront of his mind. He wished he knew whether he'd seen some shade of the real Ginny in his dream, or whether it was some phantasm that risen up in his basilisk venom-weakened mind, but her last farewell replayed itself over and over in his mind.

_I'll try to be brave._

He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temple, silently praying for strength.

He reopened them, steeling himself. _  
_

His hand reached out and picked up the fountain pen and - slowly - he began to write.

Each word engraved itself into his soul forever even as the ink faded into the pages.

_My name is Harry James Potter, and one day I will be the death of you._

* * *

I'd always meant to have a kind of clever subtle manipulation of Rowling's moral at the end of Book Two. When Harry's facing Tom and the basilisk alone, it's his faith in Dumbledore that calls Fawkes to him, bringing with him the Sorting Hat and the Sword of Gryffindor. I meant for Tom to target and undermine Harry's faith in Dumbledore, which leads to Harry's downfall and becoming truly helpless and desperate. That's more subtle and intelligent and _Slytherin _than just smirking or being in a slash pairing, which is what being Slytherin means most of the time in the fandom.

I think this will shape up to be a much superior story than the original, one that will live up to the potential of the idea. Most importantly, I can relate and get into the heads of Tom and Harry, something I found I couldn't do the first time around.

If any of you would like a personal copy of the original incarnation of the story, I don't mind sending it, just leave me the email address you want me to send the attachment by. I've got the private messaging option enabled.

There are 546 of you who have _**To Define Treachery **_in your favorites lists and 857 who have it in your alert lists. I know a lot of you guys can't review because you reviewed already and FFnet doesn't allow multiple reviews, but I hope you guys are there and still interested in this.

See you guys soon.


	3. Chapter III: A Time for Old Friends

Hey guys, I finally got the much-needed breakthrough and completed chapter three. There were some substantial scenes that I wanted in this chapter rather than the next one. Always hard to rewrite something because it means starting from the ground up, but the effort is going into something worthwhile.

I'm very happy with the reception for the new incarnation of this story, thank you all so much for your support. Here's the next 5,000 words of _To Define Treachery._

* * *

**Chapter III**: A Time for Old Friends

* * *

_People are always in such a rush_, Albus Dumbledore thought, deep in his midday ruminations.

Men stayed in the world so fleetingly, their passage through womb to tomb gone in the blink of an eye. Albus preferred to take his time.

He watched the statues of great wizards and witches that populated the arboretum. Rows and rows of them - all famed statesmen, leaders who had subdued dark creatures preying on humanity, theoreticians and pioneers of magical arts that they taught their pupils, who would in turn teach their own students until their knowledge spread to all corners of the word.

They were each a testament to the truth that all paid their dues to Father Time before they were confronted with Death, and gone meekly into the after.

He knew a handful of these bygone figures intimately, had known what their faces looked like when smiling or grimacing, remembered the little idiosyncrasies and foibles they revealed when they were distracted, and dearly missed the fire in their eyes when they would discourse over their academic findings. It seemed that there were fewer and fewer kindred spirits in the world as the days went by.

Many more had lived in far earlier epochs of wizardkind, far before his time, like Andros the Invincible who alone could conjure a Patronus the size of a giant, or the diviner Mopsus, whose every prophecy was lucid and came true, or Falco Aesalon, who unlocked the secret of the Animagus when he took the form of a falcon. He would meet the statues' imperious gazes, peer into those unseeing onyx eyes and wonder what they had been like in life.

Breathing in deep, he luxuriated in the enervating scent of hawthorn. He found this sanctuary the most perfect place in all the world for deep noon-day thought and dwellings of an aging and brilliant mind. He absentmindedly swished his hand through the gentle currents of the fountain he was sitting beside. Water sylphs wrestled and playfully darted through his fingertips, their shimmering forms lending the cool waters an otherworldly glow.

But it was time to leave his sanctuary.

The aura of serenity was lost, swept away by winds of another tragedy - the death of Ginevra Weasley coinciding with the disappearance of Harry Potter. He glanced around at the groves of elder, and their drooping boughs seemed defeated. The encroaching groundmist seeping through their roots seemed a shade sinister, hiding creeping things he could not abide.

A brilliant flash of fire signalled Fawkes' arrival, the phoenix settling down on the shoulder of Dorcas Wellbeloved's statue. Fawkes cocked its head sideways, looking at him inquisitively.

Albus greeted his friend's arrival with an almost unnoticeable gesture sent a jet of water at the bird. Fawkes squawked and instantly shot away from his perch, flying over to the statue of Grendelin the Woeful, further away from his horrible master.

"Just keeping you on your toes," he informed the indignant phoenix with the utmost seriousness. He betrayed not a hint that it was a gesture of good humor as he pushed himself to his feet.

"Well," he said, rising and extending his arm for Fawkes to take hold, "let us be off."

Fawkes waited for a moment, then huffed and reluctantly flew over to him and settled on his arm. He nipped his ear halfheartedly to convey his annoyance.

Albus bade farwell to history's giants and allowed himself to be whisked away.

_To Hogwarts I return._

* * *

The knife stayed with him.

He had kept it, and slowly managed to straighten the blade out. The humble butter-knife seemed woefully inadequate to the task of threatening someone who would become the most feared Dark wizard of his time, and he found himself wishing for a better alternative.

Tom slept somewhere else, so he couldn't try stabbing him to death when he wasn't awake. He contemplated trying to lunge and get him through something soft and vulnerable, like the eyes, but the thought horrified him and he was afraid of messing up. Surely Tom wouldn't allow a second opportunity if he missed.

There was a clock in the landing connecting this storey to the one below it, in the middle of the stairway. He hadn't taken notice of it before. It was a dignified-looking longcase clock. He pictured the pendulum inside, swinging back and forth endlessly. It was purposeless in the worst way, for time had no meaning for him, under these circumstances.

He was feeling weaker than in past days. He had lost his energy from writing in the diary and losing pieces of himself to its sorcerous properties. The pall of Ginny stood tall in his mind, and he felt sickened to know that he was edging closer to her fate. Tom had taken so much from Ginny that he needed little from Harry, but it made him feel violated, subjected to something deeply, fundamentally wrong. It was a nauseating fear that ate away at him like a cancer, haunting his dreams. What did it feel like to wake up as another person?

He idly carved designs into the wall with the knife, scraping off peels of paint. The memory of drawing crude pictures in the dirt with sticks at Summerlake park in Surrey had lost none of its clarity. There had been a good stretch of time when he was six or seven, when Dudley was too young to really bully him too ferociously, that he'd been bold enough to play at the park. He had even played with some of the other children his age, and the parents hadn't been poisoned against him by the Dursleys. Then Dudley had grown, and that time passed, and the other children would whisper bad things about him instead of playing with him.

"Found a way to entertain yourself?" Tom asked. He was leaning against the section of the wall separating the two halves of the flight of stairs. The stairs from the floor Harry was trapped on ran down in one direction, while the stairs from the lower floor ran up toward the landing in the other direction. He craned his neck around the corner to where Harry was standing, and peered at the illustrations of eight-legged creatures marring the wall.

"I never liked those things either," he remarked.

The acromantulae were still a vivid, nightmarish image in Harry's mind.

"I've always wanted to deface walls, for some reason," Harry said, saying the words without thinking.

"A good way to entertain oneself, I suppose."

Harry looked down, suddenly wearied of the exchange. "It gives me something to do."

Tom made an mmhmm noise of agreement. "Now that I've found you, I think it's high time we had a little heart-to-heart."

"What?"

"A chat, Harry," Tom said encouragingly. "Surely you must have some questions you'd like to ask me."

Harry made no motion to move over, so Tom plopped himself down on second-to-last step of the stairwell's upper flight. They sat in silence, watching the clock on the wall. A dim half-light shined from the corridor and framed Tom's figure, casting his shadow hazily on the wall. Harry considered standing up and walking down the rest of the stairs. He'd wind up at the opposite end of the hallway and march straight to his room and sulk there for the rest of the day.

Precisely a minute had passed before Harry finally caved in to his curiosity.

"Okay, fine. What're your plans?" he questioned. "Why did you take me away from Hogwarts?"

"Well, Harry, I don't have the foggiest idea," Tom said cheerfully. "But that's a good question. My turn."

That set him off. He gave a strangled, despairing yell and smashed his fist against the wall separating them viciously enough to numb his entire hand. He seized the banister and pulled himself up, fully intending to storm down the rest of the stairs and ignore the bastard.

"Wait," Tom stated. He made no effort to move from his seat.

Harry's foot lingered in midair as he struggled to get himself under control.

"Why would you invite me to ask a question, and then not even answer it? Go to hell," he snapped. "It's not enough, what you've done to me, isn't it? You have to make every little thing torturous!"

"I was telling you the truth," Tom's voice came evenly. "Although I admit was toying with you. If you stay, I will give you the serious answer you deserve."

It was as much civility as he'd ever had the grace to show him.

Against his better judgment, he stayed.

"Okay. Whatever," he said, a caustic and bitter sarcasm slipping into his tone. "What does it matter, I'm just wasting my time here one way or the other, right?"

"Let me ask you something. What would you be doing, if I hadn't dragged you out of Hogwarts, away from your life?"

Harry briefly considered this.

"I'd be at home," he said, pointing out the obvious.

"What would you be doing there?"

Harry had a sinking feeling that he knew where this was leading.

Undeterred by the boy's lack of reaction, Tom continued.

"Would you be _studying?" _he asked innocently. "Is that what you would be doing?"

_How does he do this? _Harry mouthed silently, helplessly to himself.

Where had Tom pulled out that question from? How did he _know?_

He would be doing chores, through no fault of his own.

He would be wandering around the neighborhood, or taking a stroll at the park if the weather was nice.

He would be exchanging letters with Hermione and Ron.

He would eagerly look forward to the end of summer and daydream about the adventures he would have next year.

But he wouldn't lie to himself by saying he'd be studying magic for its own sake.

"I start to think about it a little more," Tom said, his tone contemplative and tinged with a shade of melancholy, "and it seems to me that our similarities are superficial. Initially, I thought; 'Our faces are not dissimilar. We wield brother wands. We lived without knowledge of magic for eleven years.' The Weasley told me about the Muggles that treat you so poorly, and who you live with in the summer. I see the fingerprints of fate about us, faint like a layer of dust, giving us no insight into why they're there. That's a thing of mine," he admitted, "I see these connections and I see meaning in them. They're irresistible to me, so I'll make blind decisions such as sparing you. But reason does catch up to me soon or later."

His shadow shifted on the wall and Harry stiffened warily, the heel of his foot moving instinctively to the stair-step below.

"When I was your age, I read voraciously, plied my teachers for scraps of spellwork that lay ahead in the curriculum, beseeched the permission of the librarians to bring texts home over the summers. To me, magic was still miraculous, still perfect in my mind."

"I've seen it in many of my peers," Tom went on, "It was as if magic had lost its novelty for these immature little fools, like the gloss or paint chipped from a toy." He shook his head, and his lip curled into a sneer. "They treat it as _schoolwork_, as muggles do, the means to get marks. An Acceptable, Poor, Troll, Excellent, Outstanding. And all I thought of them was - **_pathetic_**."

Harry fumed, stunned at his own speechlessness and feeling an overwhelming surge of hatred. Every time he thought he was spent emotionally, another wave would crash and resuscitate that seething loathing. The monster had made a murderer out of him and refused to stop there. He had wormed his way into his mind, finding his flaws, and made him feel _guilt_.

All the feelings of the happiest day of his life came rushing back. The sheer _power_ of those memories made him shiver and his lip disbelief, yet a timid hope that the Hogwarts letter wasn't a hoax. The sleepless night at seaside, the silent, lonely countdown to his eleventh birthday and his life changing forever. The sheer joy of making his first friend.

Of learning that _magic_ existed.

He stood there, devastated.

"Now you may ask me your first question again," Tom said primly.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. He wanted nothing more than to erase every trace of the boy on the other side of the wall from the face of the earth.

"What are you doing here, in this place?" he asked hoarsely, "Why are you keeping me prisoner?"

"I was telling you the truth. I truly don't know. My instinct told me to take you, and I listened to it for it has so rarely led me astray. As for what I'm doing here, I'm waiting for someone."

"You're _waiting_," Harry repeated, the skepticism clear in his voice.

"And he knows it," Tom added, "He's definitely known I've been here for the past three days, if not longer."

"Maybe he isn't coming."

"He'll come here eventually. First of all, this is his summer home. And secondly, his curiosity gets the better of him, every single time," Tom said with a mischievous grin.

He hauled himself up.

"Well, good talking to you, as always."

Tom clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, descending down the stairs and disappearing from sight. The gentle footfalls diminished, leaving Harry alone with the spiders carved into the wall.

His mood reflective, Harry followed Tom down the stairs, and wound up standing at the far end of the same hall as always. The older boy was nowhere in sight, in some part of the house he couldn't reach.

He made his way to his room, mind quite blank. He passed the study, and stopped. Tom had never bothered to reseal it. He wasn't sure what compelled him to enter it again, but he didn't care and walked in.

The armoire desk and the contents scattered about its surface were unchanged; everything remained in the same place they'd been the last time he'd been in the room. There was a bookshelf in the cabinet space above the desk surface that he hadn't noticed before. It was one of the details that escape an observer under duress.

The bookshelf was stocked with texts, some of them quite thick. He leaned in close to get a good look and began to examine them. Most of them were pure drudgery by his standard - the history of Wimbledon, autobiographies of people he didn't know, a few novels with dull-sounding names - but one of them struck his fancy. It had been well-read by its owner, as evidenced by the tarnished edges of its pages, and its title read _Devious Charmwork and Their Devilish Applications, Volume_ _II_.

Harry stared at it hard, then reached up and removed it from the shelf. He'd assumed that whoever lived here was a Muggle, but this suggested otherwise. He opened it and skimmed through it lightly, taking in the incantations and living illustrations and the explanations.

He couldn't stop a smile from gracing his face, dark though his mood was.

Tom's words hurt to the extent Harry was surprised they hadn't drawn blood. But they had made him remember the majesty of magic, the thrill of his first _Wingardium Leviosa. _

He wouldn't forget, he swore to himself.

* * *

The curtain of phoenix fire parted itself, and Dumbledore found himself gazing at the towering gates of Hogwarts. They swung open of their own accord, the castle recognizing his presence and welcoming him back home loyally.

He arrived without fanfare, but so well-loved was he that it didn't take long for the student populace to catch onto his return as he made his way through the front courtyard. Students between classes called out to him, and he returned their smiles. Students waved from the overlooks and balconies and the higher landings, and one of them welcomed him with a beautiful conjuration of doves. An entire flock of them made of light of purest silver, a wonderful piece of sixth-year charmwork. He clapped in appreciation as the magical birds joined a flock of flesh-and-blood birds, accompanying them towards the treetops of the Forbidden Forest.

He did not want to attract too much attention however, and after greeting a group of Ravenclaws let Fawkes bring him to the hallway outside of his office in another flash of fire.

The gargoyle had just finished sliding back into place, and Dumbledore found himself facing a tall wizard dressed in extravagant green dress robes. He was Euan Bennett, and Dumbledore found that he simply did not have the time to deal with him.

"Albus?" he asked incredulously. "The board has not yet approved your return."

Dumbledore gave him a steady, intent look over his half-moon spectacles. Euan shifted in discomfort, unable to hold his gaze.

"I am well aware of this fact," Dumbledore said at last, simply and without further explanation. "Anything else?"

He stepped aside to let Euan past, smiling as he heard the choice words muttered the governor's breath.

He stated the password to the gargoyle and ascended the stairwell to the Headmaster's Tower. The office was filled with the delightful whirring sounds of his collection of instruments, and the astronomy models spun as they always did. Professor McGonagall was waiting for him.

"Minerva," he greeted warmly as they hugged each other, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

She stepped back from him formally, and couldn't hide a small but, alas, restrained and subdued smile. Her face was always one meant to be happy rather than severe, Dumbledore thought privately. Given the circumstances, he could understand her seriousness.

"Welcome back, Albus. I trust that Euan didn't give you any trouble?"

"None at all, my dear."

"Good. The Ministry representatives are to arrive within the hour to begin their investigations in the Chamber. Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger will be along to see you shortly, as you instructed."

"Thank you. They have every right to know what has transpired."

But no one knew what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets yet. He could only tell them that Ginny was dead and Harry's fate was unknown. He felt a heavy weight settle on his heart, and a flicker of something akin to apprehension. It was far from the first time he had been the bearer of tragic news.

It was a responsibility he had accepted time and time again, but never before for victims so young.

* * *

As it turned out, studying magic was difficult without being able to put his newfound knowledge into practice. It tempered his renewed determination in a hurry, but he didn't let the lack of a wand deflate him. He practiced the motions diligently. He worked on the suppleness of his wrist, something that he would have paid less attention to _with _a wand. He visualized their effects in his mind, imagined how he'd employ them to accomplish astonishing things. He memorized the incantations, and tried his best not to be bothered by the possibility that he might never get the chance to cast the spells.

But nothing could be more frustrating than _not having his wand_.

Harry felt this frustration acutely when he heard the unprecedented sound of knocking on the door.

The _front _door.

It was a muffled sound, as if coming from underwater.

He stood still, hardly daring to breathe.

Then, an equally muffled click and creaking of hinges.

Someone from below cleared his throat and muttered an incantation.

"_Finite_ _incantatem."_

A counter-spell that neutralized the effects of spells acting on environments, Harry recalled instantly from the very first chapter of _Devious Charmwork._ He made the mental leaps and in the corner of his eye, he saw the misting and obfuscation of the window-panes disappear, for the first time exposing the view of evergreen treetops in the distance, swaying in the evening wind.

The sound of footsteps were clearer now, and Harry knew he had no time at all to waste due to indecision if he wanted to regain his freedom. He was all too aware of his vulnerable state. He was without his wand, so he couldn't defend himself. He had no idea if Tom was here or not, but he had to take his chances.

Gathering his courage, he rushed to the staircase, moving his feet as quietly as he could. He stole past the landing and last set of stairs to arrive at the lower floor. He blinked, staring at unfamiliar surroundings. The stairs, instead of routing him back to the damnable hallway that had trapped him, deposited him onto a landing that split to the left and right. The one to the left led to what he was fairly certain was an entry hall, but backed away at the split-second glimpse of a silhouette striding from the open doorway. Anxiety began, but he tried to keep his head clear. He didn't know enough about the person Riddle was waiting for, whether he was an enemy or friend. The wily Slytherin hadn't let a single hint slip as to their relationship. Harry had nothing he could use.

Escape was tantalizingly close, but he checked himself and moved in the other direction, through a laundry room and into a kitchenette. He searched frantically for a back door, but he spotted it too late, and making a move for it would put him into the line of sight of the armed-with-a-wand arrival. Over the counter, he could see a modest-sized living room with unlit lamps and sofas and a television set.

Tom was lounging on one of those couches, cross-legged with a notebook in his lap. He noticed Harry. He regarded him with a disapproving gaze and Harry stood there, heart sinking, and they were both motionless.

Soon, the stranger came into view, and Harry saw that he was an older gentleman, perhaps an inch taller than Tom. Light moisture clung to his gray coat and perfectly-trimmed moustache. He reminded Harry of a portrait he'd seen of Mark Twain on the back of a Huckleberry Finn novel. A tad younger and less white-haired, but otherwise the resemblance held.

The gentleman looked between Harry and Tom askance, and they all stared at each other, speechless and unsure of what to do. Harry thought of a dozen things he could say and none of them seemed appropriate, so ultimately said nothing.

He didn't know what to expect. Whether Tom would start a dialogue or decide to let curses fly. He hoped the other person was skilled at dueling if Tom opted for the latter option.

"Well," the gentleman began, "No precautions, hardly any defenses of any sort? I admit that I am disappointed in you, Tom."

"Why would I bother with such things?" Tom said charmingly, easing into the conversation without missing a beat, "I trust you, after all."

"That's the impression you want to convey, certainly."

"I ... won't deny it," Tom allowed, "That and the fact that you would foresee any tricks I tried to pull."

"My gift doesn't work quite that conveniently. You know this."

Realization dawned on Harry.

The man was a seer.

"Ah, see the boy's expression?" the man said to Tom, sounding pleased. " He catches on quick, he does. Though your word choice of 'foresee' is something I would term a 'dead giveaway'."

Tom gave a small shrug, an easy smile playing on his lips.

"I hesitate to call him bright, but he's shown the occasional sign of brilliance."

The gentleman gave a strikingly fake smile and strode into the living room, seating himself in an armchair facing Tom.

"I'll do you a favor and broach the reason we're here," he said, his demeanor suddenly all business. "I don't see everything - far from it - so it boggles my mind that I'm talking to you again, looking like your younger self. And with none other than Harry Potter, plucked away from the vaunted safety of Hogwarts."

Tom gestured for him to continue, listening intently.

"I am going to guess, from the stir about the Chamber of Secrets and Harry's presence, that it was you that unleashed Slytherin's monster and caused all of that chaos for the mudbloods of the school."

"That would be correct, yes."

"So I assume that you still swear by your old beliefs."

Tom regarded him, a hint of coolness now in his expression and the warmth fading from his tone.

"Am I to assume that you do not?"

"I'm through with that philosophy, Tom," he said, shaking his head. "To be honest, I never wanted anything to do with it, even when we were peers. That's why I never took your mark."

Tom looked down at his feet silently. Harry felt nervous, wondering whether a life was going to end.

Tom rose deliberately, but the gentle man held his gaze steadily, showing no signs of being intimidated.

"You know that I came to you first," he ground out, almost as if struggling to understand. "Not Malfoy. Not Rosier. Not Rothley. Of all of them, I came to _you."_

_"_And I am disappointing you, to my regret. Such is life."

"Life?" Tom said disbelievingly. "I see the tax return forms on the desk in your study. I see the health care, passports, membership documents to a golfing club in Wellington. Correspondence to a dull family in Essex, congratulating them on their purchase of an exotic sports car. I would've assumed the inhabitant of this house to be a Muggle were it not for our history together. When did life take such a turn?"

The sides of his mouth were drawn into a thin line.

"How long has it been since you've left the wizarding world?"

Tom's expression was morphed by a trace of sadness and an old pain, and the sight of his face seemed unforgettable to Harry.

"Many years ago," the gentleman said solemnly, "Even before you began your foolhardy revolution. And don't hate me for saying it, but you could do something similar. Disappear into the Muggle world. Or don a new identity in the wizarding one, and forget the old delusions."

"Seer's blood runs through your veins, but you are a coward," Tom hissed.

"I don't care what you call me," he said, upturning his nose.

He should have gotten a Killing Curse to the face right then, but instead, something in that flippant, uncaring answer deflated Tom and sapped his desire to prolong the conversation. A silent understand passed between them, and when Tom spoke again, a strange sadness overtook his voice.

"Well then," he said simply, "I can recognize a lost cause when I'm faced with one. I apologize for intruding on your hospitality. I'll take the boy and move on."

The gentleman held up a hand imperiously, staying Tom.

"While it saddens me that my half-hearted effort to dissuade you from your ideology failed - for surely it will lead to much suffering - I am glad that I decided to pay you the courtesy of a visit in person and tell you my decision not to support you face-to-face. It is good seeing you again, Tom," he said sincerely.

He climbed to his feet, nodded to Harry, then turned his back on them on his way out. He paused when he reached the edge of the entryway.

"Albus Dumbledore learns of your existence midway through summer, despite all your efforts to keep your secrets," he said apologetically, "In the meantime, I should like to have my perfectly Muggle summer home back."

He strode away from them, and the sound of his boots on the floor ceased as the door closed shut.

Harry blinked, bewildered. Tom merely stood there, eyes fixed on the empty space where the seer had sat not long before.

"Is that it?" he finally asked, mystified. "You're not going to go after him?"

"He knows I'm not part of his future," Tom answered, his lips pursed in a way that made him seem dangerous and mournful at the same time. "He's already seen it."

* * *

Dumbledore's scenes take place in the immediate aftermath after the events in the Chamber of Secrets, so those scenes are chronologically a step behind Tom's and Harry's. The next chapters will follow a similar course, with Tom searching for the unsevered threads of the past and Harry ever-watchful for an opportunity to escape.

I have a busted harddrive with the old version, and I lost a lot of work with it as well. I'm going to try and get a deep scan done on it when I have time, hopefully it'll recover the files and I can send it to the guys who asked about it.

I thought that it wouldn't hurt to mention that I've posted the first chapter of something new. It's called _Weaves a Hundred Ravens In His Schemes, _a fresh take on the Independent!Harry story without the cliches that have dominated the genre. I'll be writing these two stories in tandem. Review both if you like them!


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